


The Unlikeliest of Heroes

by Pearl09



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oblivious Bard, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Thieves Guild, chaotic dragonborn, lydia is a babysitter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26158984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearl09/pseuds/Pearl09
Summary: When a bard stumbles his way across a fight between two warring forces, he never thought his luck would go so far. Not only does he escape his death, but he was among the first to see a dragon in millennia. This is his story to document, so he isn't planning on leaving Skyrim any time soon. This story could make him even more famous than he already is. He just never expected to get so tangled up in it, for it totrulybe his story...
Relationships: Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Lydia, Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Marcurio





	The Unlikeliest of Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thank you for reading! Just want to start this off saying I do not have this finished, or a schedule for when chapters will come out. I'm just writing as I play. After the Witcher I thought playing a bard in Skyrim would be great, but obviously, the game can't give me quite the story I want. So, I'm writing it out and sharing it with all of you!
> 
> I know sometimes just reading the same dialogue over and over again that we already know from the source can be boring, so I've tried to add my own flair to it, and for some of the not so important/small sidequests, I'm just giving a generalization of what happened so the main story can continue.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

“Who are you?”

A pause. A confused blink. What a loaded question for someone still regaining his senses. He had been unconscious in the cart for… well, let’s just say he doesn’t remember much, just walking his way into Skyrim on important business. So much had happened since he woke, too. His hands were bound before him, and he learned that, of all things, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Getting mixed up in a bunch of war criminals and riding to his untimely execution was not how he imagined his entrance to Skyrim would be.

To top it all off, instead of his captors realizing that if he wasn’t on their list, they didn’t mean to capture him. Surely, if they wanted to know who he was, then he couldn’t truly be anyone important. He sighed quietly. So much for a simple trip to Skyrim.

“I’m Venaric Favellus,” he answered, flourishing the best he could with his hands bound together. “Surely, now that I have introduced myself, you know who I am and realize the mistake you’ve made in bringing me here.”

The Imperial captain looked unimpressed. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

He looked affronted. “Do I truly need to go into more detail? Surely, you’ve heard of Venaric Favellus, the best, most famous Imperial bard, and, dare I say, the best in all of Tamriel. Have tales of my shoulder length brown hair and sparkling green eyes that dazzle anyone they come across never reached your ears? Or my immaculately trimmed goatee that was pronounced to be a wonder of the world?”

“I don’t like bards, so I certainly don’t keep up to date with their news.”

“Hmph. Then maybe you’d realize no simple bard would be traveling with criminals such as these – what did you call them? Stormcloaks?”

“I think I’ve heard of him before, Captain,” the soldier taking names said, looking over the parchment in his hand. “He’s not on the list, and he does seem to be an Imperial…”

“We can’t take any risks. Line up with the others, or meet the same fate as that other man who tried to run.”

He gulped and glanced behind her at the body in the road, full of arrows. The poor man from Rorikstead. He might have gotten out of this bind if he had just waited a little longer. Venaric did as he was told, but was already plotting his escape. You weren’t a renowned bard if you hadn’t had to escape from plenty of tight situations before. Oh, the stories he could tell...

Given time, the ropes binding him would come off. He had gotten out of tighter restraints before. But, time was the problem. There wasn’t enough. He stood there as he was told and fought against the ropes without drawing attention, but there were only a handful of prisoners there awaiting the chopping block. The soldiers seemed to take them in no particular order, either. While the strange noise that started in the distance distracted some of them, it wasn’t enough.

Before he knew it, it was his own head pressed against the stone, preparing for his execution. He could slide away at the last second, perhaps, but that would only delay his death. There were too many soldiers watching. The cold steel of the executioners axe pressed against the back of his neck and he gulped as the cool stone underneath him pressed further into his cheek. As the axe was raised over his soon to be killer’s head, he closed his eyes and formed a quick prayer in his mind, sending it out and hoping it would reach someone in time to intervene. Divines, Daedra – he would take anyone at this point.

The ground shook violently and he slid from the block accidentally as that sound returned once more, this time much, _much_ louder. It pierced the air and sent a jolt of terror down his spine. It sounded even worse than a lute out of tune.

“Dragon!” someone screamed, but no, that couldn’t be true, there’s no way...

Venaric opened his eyes and saw the guards were no longer paying attention, so taking the opportunity, he stood up to run. He wasn’t expecting to be met face to face with a dragon perched on the tower in front of him, freezing in his shock and awe. Unfortunately, that gave the dragon enough time to attack, the piercing sound ringing out in his ears as he shouted at Venaric, sending him stumbling backwards. After regaining his balance, he ran away as fast as he could.

“Over here!” There was a familiar face. He ran towards Ralof, one of the men who rode in on the same cart as him. He had explained to Venaric what had happened while he was unconscious, so he seemed trustworthy enough. The best way to get out of an execution gone awry was to follow the other prisoners and make their escape together. Once everything had settled down, he was going to have to write a strongly worded letter back home and have them pardon him for the crimes he didn’t commit.

They took shelter in the nearby turret that wasn’t currently dragon infested, breathing heavily. The dragon continued to shout outside, but in the moment, they could catch their breath. There had to be a way to escape. The Divines had heard his prayer and were sparing his life. Surely, they wouldn’t give him false hope and let him die at the claws of a dragon instead?

Once they caught their breath, they ran upstairs, the only other possible place they could go, but the dragon tore a hole in the wall, blocking the rest of the staircase. That left two choices. Either go back down, out the door they entered, sure to be surrounded by Imperials once more, or…

Heart beating wildly in his chest, Venaric peeled himself from the wall and looked out the hole, spotting a nearby house whose roof had already caved in. Without another thought, he backed up and ran, jumping out into the open air. For a few, terrifying moments, he flew unaided through the air. He managed a stumbling landing on the second floor, nearly falling over without the help of his hands. In the terror of seeing a dragon once more, he had forgotten about that. New goal – free his hands.

Alright. Leave the building before it collapsed. Avoid the dragon. That’s an Imperial, that’s a Stormcloak, that’s another Imperial… Oh look, it was Ralof again. He made it out of the tower. He made it safely out of the tower. Venaric decided to follow him again – anything to get out of the hell hole Helgen had become.

“I think we’ll be safe for now,” Ralof said after they ducked into a new, more sturdy building. “Here, let me cut you loose.” He beckoned Venaric over, picking up a knife from his fallen companion.

“Thank you.” he rubbed at his wrists once the rope fell to the ground and looked around. “You wouldn’t happen to know the way out, would you? Or mind me tagging along to find out? I promise, you’ll hardly notice me.”

“Nay, I don’t. But we can figure it out together. They didn’t happen to leave you with any of your belongings, did they?”

Patting his pockets, he shook his head. “No lute, no notebook… years of poems, gone. Well, I guess I’ll have to make a fresh start on that, then.” He sighed. “At least I still have this.” His hand wrapped around the amulet of Dibella under his shirt. “I’d hate to have to have gotten a replacement.”

“Go ahead and take his armor, then. You never know what awaits us at the moment with a dragon on the loose.”

“Right… Give me a moment?” Though he was hesitant to take the clothes off of a dead body, it wasn’t long before he was done hopping around the floor trying to pull the boots on. He also discarded the ripped and torn clothes he was wearing previously, planning on finding a suitable replacement for them as soon as they made it out of the town.

“Don’t forget his axe, too,” Ralof said, gesturing to it.

“Oh, I don’t really… fight.”

“You’re joking, right?” He chuckled, earning a weaker one from Venaric as he chimed in, scratching the back of his neck. “To travel Skyrim without a weapon is suicide.”

“Well I do know a few spells, they usually keep me going–”

“Bah, no magic will ever best the hard, cold steel you grip in your hand. Go on, take the axe. And be ready, I hear people coming this way.”

With a sigh he did as he was told, gripping the handle awkwardly and crouching beside the gate. Sure enough, the sound of people traveling made it to his ears, and the gate opened to let two Imperials through. Since he had donned the Stormcloak armor, they saw him as one of the criminals as well, and truly, he couldn’t blame them. He quickly found out just how hard it was to fight with an axe, untrained.

He hacked and slashed the best he could, but as inexperienced as he was, Ralof did most of the fighting. This wasn’t his first time swinging a weapon, of course, but he was never good at it. Partially because he was always off in his head, thinking up songs or poems. The last time he remembered holding an axe was a woodcutting one, but he was quickly pushed into a different task as he could never quire split the log, splintering off into smaller chunks that weren’t wanted or needed.

“Right,” Ralof said as the last Imperial fell, toeing a body out of the way. “Shall we get going?”

Venaric let him lead, not wanting to run into trouble head on. If there was anything that he could say for certain, it was that a Nord would never back down in a fight. He planned to rely on that to get him to safety. It proved true when they stumbled upon a torture chamber under the building, when Ralof ran headfirst into the fight and didn’t stop until every last one of the Imperials was dead.

Meanwhile, Venaric did what any good, sensible bard would do – cheer on the one who could fight and offer his moral support. He only joined the fight when he was forced to, as someone’s attention was focused onto him.

“Looks like there might be some gold in that cage there, could prove useful if you can pick the lock. Do you have any picks?”

Oh, did he certainly have lockpicks. But, for once, there was something more important than gold. “You’re covered in blood. Do you need a healing potion? I picked up a few back there. You’re welcome to take one.”

Ralof looked down at himself. “No, I’m okay. It’s not my blood.”

“Okay…” Tearing his eyes away from the sight, he swiftly opened the lock and scooped up the gold scattered in the bottom of the cage. He looked over it briefly before stowing it in his pocket, thinking it might just be enough to find food and lodging for the night when they finally managed to escape.

When they ran into yet another group of Imperials, Venaric was tired of seeing them. All he wanted was a warm bed and a stiff drink. As Ralof ran towards them, he slipped around the side, unnoticed. His original plan was to run for it, but seeing as there could be anything creeping around in the tunnels ahead… He spotted a familiar, iridescent liquid on the floor under the archer’s feet, and he knew what to do. His free hand tightened into a fist, and when he opened it, harmless flames danced along his fingertips. One quickly aimed burst of fire at the man’s feet and the whole puddle burst into flames, encasing him in the flickering tongue’s warm embrace until he fell to the floor, dead.

“Huh, not bad,” Ralof said, coming over to him.

“Still think magic is bad?”

He shrugged. “I still say magic isn’t as personal, but I guess it does the job in a pinch.”

Sighing, Venaric gestured for him to continue forward. The quicker they made it out, the quicker he could go off on his own. He missed his lute.

In the next room, they faced the worst enemy yet – giant spiders. He had a deep fear of spiders of all sizes for reasons mostly unknown - he was never quite sure if it was the unnatural amount of shiny, beady black eyes, or the etra, hairy legs, or the fact that anyone could walk into their webs when they least expect it and then it sticks all over and can really ruin an outfit. Without hesitation, he used the flames still flickering against his palm to torch the spiders. For them, mercy was never an option. 

Finally, it seemed they were nearing the end of the cave, soon to feel the wind on their faces again and smell the grass growing along the sides of the road. Except, there was still one tiny little roadblock left.

“A bear?” Venaric said, pursing his lips as he looked further into the cave. He would have easily mistaken the thing for a rock, it was so large. Surely the bears in Skyrim had some kind of genetic mutation. He filed that thought away for later. “There’s no way I want to fight _that_.”

He crouched, and this time Ralof followed him, slowly and quietly sneaking their way around the beast to not disturb its slumber. When they were almost out of its sight, just about to reach the home stretch, Venaric stepped on a twig and snapped it in two. The sound echoed loudly throughout the cavern, and his head immediately swung to look at the bear. It twitched and looked up sleepily but they had already frozen in place, not even daring to breathe. Luckily, it took no notice of them, and quickly went back to sleep. He let out a sigh of relief before they finished sneaking out of the cave and immediately took a deep breath of the fresh air.

“Thank you,” Ralof said, stretching out in the sunlight. “I don’t know that I would have survived without your help.”

“It was nothing,” Venaric said with a bow, though he felt that the statement was more true the other way around.

“My sister, Gerdur, lives in Riverwood. It shouldn’t be far from here, if I have my bearings right. Would you like to come with me? I’m sure she’ll provide us with food and anything else you may need.”

Who was he to turn down free food? The less gold he spent, the more he could hold onto to help him out in the future. “Lead the way, my friend.”

They set down the winding path together. Ralof filled the silence between them, but Venaric wasn’t listening, so it was very much a one-sided conversation. He was too busy trying to be sure he had the right details of everything that had happened, and in the correct order. A dragon returning, and he, at the center of it all, surely the only bard there to witness it – or the only one to survive… oh, he would be able to make some fabulous poetry out of this. A wonderful experience indeed, even if he almost died a few times in the process.

“Have you ever heard of the standing stones?” Ralof asked, gesturing to the group of stones in front of them. “These three are the guardian stones, three of thirteen others. They say that each stone gives the user a unique ability if they choose to have its blessing.”

“I think I have heard tale of them, yes. What, may I ask, are these three?”

“That one there’s the warrior’s stone.” He pointed to the one on the right. “I believe that name is pretty straightforward. Most people in Riverwood come to receive blessings from this one. The one in the middle is the mage’s stone. I guess that might be the one you want to go for, if you insist those petty flames will protect you enough throughout your travels. And the last one, it’s almost not even worth mentioning. That there is the thief’s stone–”

He needed to explain no further. For Venaric, it was perfectly clear which one he was going to use.

“Thief, eh? It’s never too late to take charge of your own fate, you know.”

With a frown, he said, “You don’t get involved in my business, and I won’t get into yours, seeing as you’re currently a rebel in the eyes of most of Skyrim.”

“Fair enough. Town’s just up ahead. I wonder if we’re the first to make it out?”

Upon reaching the town, rumors were already spreading about the great, dark dragon few folk had seen fly across the sky – why he had chosen to attack Helgen and ignored the other towns was certainly a mystery. Instead of paying attention to Ralof and his sister talking, not caring about the politics they were involved in, he kept a keen ear out for the whispers, rumors, anything good he could get his hands on. Any old bard could fashion stories out of a war – and seeing as it was not really his war, as Skyrim was not his land, surely, another bard would be able to capture the events better. But a dragon...

“Follow me,” Ralof said, handing Venaric a key. “Gerdur will let us stay and rest at her home. I don’t know about you, but I think I could eat a whole cow after that.”

“Can you do me a favor in return?” Gerdur asked, directing her question to Venaric. “If there truly is a dragon, if they truly have returned… Someone must inform the Jarl of Whiterun. We could be in danger here without any guards to protect us. Helgen wasn’t far away. Please, don’t have the time to make a trip to Whiterun, but as a traveler, you must be able to make it.”

“I’ll – see about visiting him if I find myself in Whiterun,” he said with a nod. “Unfortunately I’m expected in Solitude, and might even be late after everything, so I really shouldn’t delay that more than for food and bedding.” 

“I understand. Just keep it in mind for me, please?”

“Of course.” He had no intention of visiting Whiterun. In fact, he had never had an intention to stay in Skyrim for very long. But, he was willing to do anything to chase a story, so he would have to see what happened with this dragon.

Gerdur’s husband, Hod, brought them into the house, where Venaric helped himself to the plentiful bread and cheese already sitting out on the table. He had no patience to wait for food to cook and thought it was a perfectly reasonable meal for this time in the afternoon.

“Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a lute laying around, do you? Or a notebook?” he asked after he was finished eating, feeling it would be rude to search the house himself while they sat and watched.

Hod shook his head. “I’m sorry. No one here knows how to play an instrument, and we only keep a few books around the house anyway. None of them are blank.”

He tried to hide his disappointment in a smooth smile. “No matter, I should find a fitting replacement where I’m going. Perhaps you have a change of clothes laying about that I can take? I’d rather not be mistaken for a Stormcloak when I’m not part of the rebellion. And, from what I understand of Skyrim, trying to enter Solitude while looking like this would send me straight back to the chopping block.”

“Indeed it would. You can take a look in the wardrobe, if you wish. Take what you need.”

There wasn’t much of a choice in the wardrobe, but anything was better than the armor. He pulled out a belted tunic and a simple pair of boots, pocketing a coin purse from the nearby nightstand when no one was looking. He left the armor there: he certainly won’t be needing it. If he was to get involved in the war – which he wouldn’t – he would most definitely fight on the side of the Imperials. But he didn’t want to upset anyone, or rui the hospitality he was being shown, so he didn’t voice these thoughts aloud.

He kept the axe strapped to his side at the insistence of Ralof and bid them farewell. As he stepped outside, he couldn’t help but feel the loss of his lute, it’s weight a comforting presence when strapped on his back, and even more comforting when in his hands. Until he could get his hands on a replacement, he would have to go around and pretend to be a part of the common rabble. No self respecting bard would introduce himself as a bard and then not be able to produce an instrument to prove it. Sure, he could carry a tune without one, but most people weren’t interested in only singing.

“That damned bard. Thinking he could woo Camilla,” an elf muttered as he walked past, prickling Venaric’s ears and drawing his attention away from the journey ahead of him. “Excuse me, sir, did you say something about a bard?”

The elf turned around and crossed his arms. “Yeah. Sven thinks he can woo Camilla Valeruis with his songs and music, but it won’t work.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t it? There is something quite romantic about music and poetry, don’t you think?” He finished his statement with a wink.

Taking a step back, flustered, he looked away. “No, you’re right. It’s just – Camilla and I were close friends before he moved in. I was even thinking of asking her… well, it doesn’t matter. Hey, do you think you could do me a favor? Take this letter to Camilla and say it’s from Sven. That should do the trick.”

Venaric accepted the letter, but made no promises. That seemed to be enough for the elf, though, for his mood seemed to brighten. “May I ask your name?”

“Why?”

“Oh, doing something for a stranger seems rather odd, don’t you think? I’d _much_ rather get to know you first.”

“Faendal,” he gulped. 

“Faendal. Has a nice ring to it. Well, I’ll visit you as soon as I’m done.” He turned on his heel, leaving the flustered elf behind before heading to the inn. He wasn’t quite sure what he was going to do, so he wanted to meet this Sven before he decided.

There weren’t many people inside, to the point that he could hear the owner and the man behind the bar arguing from across the room, but there Sven was, leaning against one of the wooden support poles. Venaric could tell just from his body language that he was the man he was looking for.

He sat nearby and listened for a while, but overall, he disliked Sven. The bard seemed too sure of himself – a flaw of most – but it bled through into his singing, which was something a bard should never do. It was one thing to over act when reading a poem or something similar, but it was something entirely different when singing. It made him putchy, and his temp never quite stayed the same. He practically ridiculed Venaric, too, when he mentioned he messed up a lyric.

Venaric decided he would do as Faendal asked. This time, it wasn’t the case of betraying a friend or coworker, maybe even a potential ally and someone to perform with. He already disliked the man, so he saw no future with them playing together. No, this was about undermining the competition. He knew he was much better than Sven and drew a much larger crowd than just a couple of drunks, even in a small town like this one.

Camilla and her brother were in the middle of an argument when he entered the shop, but he decided not to get involved in their family matters, knowing that he had no time left to dawdle and needed to leave for Solitude immediately. She believed every word he said, and definitely seemed rather upset upon reading the letter, swearing she would never speak to Sven again. Faendal thanked him, excited to hear the news, and even gave him a few gold pieces for his trouble. At least the time he spent was worth something.

It was mid afternoon when he finally left Riverwood, following the still winding path down past the roaring waterfalls shooting rainbows into the sky, until the mountains gave way to a wide, open field. There sat Whiterun, the palace gleaming high upon the hill behind the walls. He paid the city no mind, not even turning to look at it as he hummed to himself and continued past, though night was falling quickly. If he stepped foot in the city, then he would feel obligated to talk to the Jarl. He would feel much more comfortable talking to the Harl with a lute in his possession, so he could truly make the trip with his while and play for the court.

The smell of farm and manure finally left and the air was clear once more as he continued on. It was late by the time he arrived in Rorikstead, and he truly felt he could journey no further. Luckly, the Frostfruit Inn still had soft, warm light streaming out of its windows, and, too inviting to pass up, he entered, paid the gold to rent a room for the night, and promptly passed out on the bed he was given.

**Author's Note:**

> Want to see more of this chaotic bard before I write the next chapter? I might post some of my game experiences on [my tumblr!](https://pearlll09.tumblr.com/)


End file.
